After the Lancaster Beer Festival

I want you to read this:
my night was the endless Niagara.

Love, flowing along sediment
of bones and thorny breathing,

ends on a brown couch of dog
and cat hair nice against my jeans.

I woke there next to a loaded potato gun.
Can’t stop writing dirty things

on the Buddha board
hoping you will read them.

If not you,
anyone.

My bones’ silence
breathes thorns.

And the message always
erases itself.

 

(originally published in Serving House Journal, Fall 2017)

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January

passed like a wavering wristwatch.
teeth quietly chattered.

the spider-leg-frizzy occiput.
raw morning shampoo. like an apple.

or butterflies. blunt sides of pins.
the polyester blanket soaked

from evening vinegar.
collected like dust.

 

(originally published in Cosmonauts Avenue – Spring 2015)